


Words

by Arsenic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-11
Updated: 2006-09-11
Packaged: 2021-01-02 01:00:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21152975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic
Summary: Snaco moment





	Words

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Femme, as a pick-me-up.

It is a secret between them--the sort both of them knows, but neither acknowledges--that Draco is the better brewer. Severus, of course, is more knowledgeable. More driven, more well-read, more willing to work for his chosen outcome. But Draco has had Severus to teach him since he was old enough to pronounce the word "asphodel," the word "shrivelfig," the word "poison." He has had access to everything he could want or need, the very best of it, the very hottest fires, the very thickest cauldrons, since he could stand. Severus would maintain--were he to maintain anything at all aloud--that half of brewing is muscle memory, and the art is inscribed along Draco's biceps, up through his shoulders, down along his spine.

Severus thinks, sometimes, that he should be jealous. He has always, in the past, been jealous of those who were able to surpass him, even in the things that he validly knew he had no skill at.

He is not jealous. He is not exactly proud, either, not even knowing that everything Draco is--at least in this area--Severus has made him.

Jealousy and pride are small emotions where Draco is concerned, and Severus has no time for them. No room inside his mind or chest.

Rather there is something elemental in watching Draco haphazardly pound at the dried cockroaches, toss the powdered dragon claw in without much as a second glance, peer with intent over the last stages of a batch of polyjuice. Something so basic and inexplicable that Severus has yet to find a word for it. Draco has suggested, in his more flippant moments, "love" but Severus rejected that idea.

Love is too simple, too pure, too triumphant, too easily overcome for this to be love. Love defeated a Dark Wizard of untold strength and Severus knows without having to press at the borders of what he feels for Draco that this could toss love to the side as easily as Draco with his powdered dragon claws.

He knows Draco does not understand his reluctance to use that word. He has seen Draco withdraw into his store rooms, counting inventory--only done when Draco cannot countenance thinking, when the hated activity is enough to drive everything from his mind; Severus hates being the cause of it--his eyes blanked as they are wont to be after his nightmares. Severus always joins him then, counts aloud. His voice has always called to Draco, not always like this, but in one way or another.

Draco will allow Severus to whisper the number of billywhig stings against Draco's wrist, to bite and kiss and lick the number of flitterbloom petals into the webbing of Draco's fingers. Draco will sometimes ask, "Am I not-"

But Severus will press his hands to Draco's stomach--covered in silk or fine cotton or expensive wool, always pressed, always pristine even after hours of counting, onetwothreefour--will tell him, "I cannot-" and use his mouth in other ways, because it is of no use to him as an instrument of language. Draco defies language for him.

It is only at the other times when Draco needs to hear those words--he has allowed Severus into his head, allowed Severus to see the nightmares, Severus falling from the Astronomy tower, Severus in Lucius' place under the tender, exacting mercies of Bellatrix, Severus walking away after the war, to nothing except the absence of Draco--it is only then that Severus can say anything, can say, "You are-" and have his next breath fill in the space left in his silence.

Draco will sometimes ask, desperately, "Everything?" because Draco is still young, and thinks that word means something.

In bed they wear no clothing, pressing themselves into each other even as they sprawl, the heat welcome even in the odd, occasional heat spikes of mid-July. Severus will curve himself over Draco, their cocks nestling without any blaze of desire. There are moments that are as far beyond sex as Severus and Draco are beyond love. Severus will whisper, "No, not enough. Not nearly," will whisper until he makes no sense even to himself, until the words have become something more than their syllables and consonants and sounds.

Draco's fingers will press at his shoulderblades, deep enough for bruises, for pain, and say, "Yes, all right, yes," say anything affirmative. Say anything.


End file.
